The Sound of His Voice
by Antiquixotic
Summary: Twenty years had assured that Wilson would know House's silhouette anywhere, and the man in the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers, was not him.


**Written for Sick!Wilson Fest, Prompt #58: **House/Wilson. It's Wilson's worst holiday (Christmas, Thanksgiving, one of the days of Hanukkah, whatever holiday you want) ever. He has no one to celebrate with, there's a blizzard outside, and he's sick. Oh, and as a bonus? An armed robber has just broken into his house.

Beta read by the illustrious Srsly_No. She's a kick-ass beta and a gifted writer, and it would serve you well to check out her fics.

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><p>"Just so you know, I hate you."<p>

House paused in the act of shrugging on a jacket long enough to roll his eyes. "If you want to be pissed at someone, spread your angst over Geriatric Dying Chick." There was another tinny beep, and he looked down at his pager. He raised an eyebrow. "Who has, apparently, turned a lovely shade of blue.

The pitiful form, huddled on the couch and all but shrouded in blankets, gave a wheezy chuckle. "Has she been ODing on silver nitrate?"

"God, I hope not. A nose drop fiend would be so boring."

"Only to you." Wilson fished yet another tissue from the box on the coffee table and blew his nose. "Do you need a ride?"

"I'd rather chance the snowy streets myself than be chauffeured by a man hopped up on cold medicine." Wilson gave him a doubtful look, and House limped back over to the couch and poked him on the shoulder. "I'll be fine. You. Lie down and sleep. Don't make me kick your ass."

"A pity, when there's so many better things you could be doing with it."

House snorted and leaned against his cane with both hands, his lean form framed by the frosted windows. The sight sent gentle warmth through Wilson's chest, and he put aside his misery and disappointment long enough to smile.

"Fine, fine," he said. "Kiss me and get out of here."

"You get clingy when you're sick. And no. You want to kill Foreman?"

"...What?"

"I kiss you," House said patiently, "you give me the plague, I spread it to all and sundry, my patient dies, the family sues, Foreman strokes out."

"A logical progression." Wilson pinched at the bridge of his nose, both to ward off a headache and to hide a treacherous grin. "You realize you're weird?"

"It's one of my better qualities." True to his word, House didn't kiss him, but he did reach out and tug at a limp lock of Wilson's hair, his index finger tracing along the shell of an ear in a brief caress. "Eat. Sleep. Get better. We have all day tomorrow, and I plan to spend it doing wicked things to you."

"I'm both frightened and aroused."

House snorted out a laugh and left without another word, closing the door behind him with a happy flourish he would later deny making. Wilson smiled at the closed door, before wilting back into his blanket cocoon. He sneezed twice and reached unsteadily for the cough medicine, his knuckles knocking against the coffee table. The apartment was suddenly too quiet, and every noise he made hit him like a slap.

House had a tendency to fill any room to bursting with the sheer force of his presence, and when he left, he seemed to take the atmosphere with him. Wilson would never admit it aloud, but the apartment was lonely without him around.

Taking another swig of the multi-purpose cold medicine, he leaned back on the couch and indulged in a bit of self-pity. As a Jewish man with Agnostic leanings, Christmas had never meant much to him besides work parties and carols on the radio. Somehow, though, in their decades of friendship he and House had made it a habit to get together on Christmas Eve. Chinese takeout and something ridiculous playing on television wasn't much of a tradition, but it was _theirs_, and he had been looking forward to it more than he cared to say.

Wilson would never begrudge House the time away from him. A life was at stake, after all, and House's obsessive need to uncover the truth was not something to be denied. It was just… too quiet, and the DVD resting on the coffee table seemed to mock him with its thwarted promise.

It went against his nature to wallow for too long, however, and after a moment, he grinned in self-deprecation and blew his nose again. It was ridiculous to get in a funk over something that couldn't be helped, and the video could wait until tomorrow. Christmas day promised to be an enjoyable one, and Chinese food was good any time of the year.

Like a kid eager to make the next day come more quickly, Wilson decided to head to bed. With a single blanket wrapped around his shoulders, he made a mug of chamomile tea and drank it cautiously over the sink. The medicine and the steamy warmth of the tea had made his nose almost workable again, and he set the empty mug in the sink with a sigh of relief.

Bed beckoned, and he obediently answered its siren call, tottering into the bedroom and all but falling into its familiar warmth. He wrapped himself snugly in blankets that smelled faintly of his lover and was asleep in moments.

He awoke an indeterminate amount of time later to a crashing noise, a muffled exclamation that might have been a curse, and the sounds of shuffling. Wilson groaned lowly, pulling the blankets over his head. House was home, and he had apparently broken another dish. For a man with long, dexterous fingers and the fine motor control of a pianist, he could be surprisingly clumsy.

"Don't think I'm coming in there to clean up," he murmured, knowing the whole time his words were a lie. Sure enough, he staggered to his feet a moment later, dragging the sheet with him in defense against the chill. Damn his OCD tendencies, anyway.

He had left the bedroom door open, so he padded silently into the living room, hiding a jaw-cracking yawn behind his hand. He blinked and peered into the kitchen, and shock shot through him like a cattle prod jolt to the spine. Twenty years had assured that Wilson would know House's silhouette anywhere, and the man with his back to him, rummaging through the drawers, was not House.

Surprise and outrage sent his fingertips tingling with adrenaline, and he stepped into the kitchen aggressively, the sheet falling from his shoulders. "What are you doing here?" he said without thought. "Get out!"

The man whirled around, knocking over the knife caddy in his haste, and knives fell to the hardwood like coffin nails, skittering through the shards of window glass already decorating the floor. The man scrabbled against the counter with one hand, his fingers hooking around something that glittered ominously in the dim light. Wilson only had time to register the panic in the other man's shaking form before the stranger lunged.

Wilson gasped and backpedaled frantically, only to misjudge the distance and ram his back against the refrigerator. He came to an abrupt halt, his back stinging from the handle, only for his breath to leave him in a rush as the startled stranger rammed into him. A slick heat bloomed in his gut like a magnolia flower, followed by an icy wave so intense and unfamiliar it took a moment to register as pain.

Unable to believe what had just happened, he looked up at the man. His gray eyes were wide and watery behind a back ski mask, his hand shaking as it convulsively gripped the hilt of the kitchen knife, its blade buried in Wilson's body.

Instinct was screaming at him to run, but his legs suddenly had no strength. His knees buckled, and the knife slid from his gut with a sick squelch he knew he would hear for the rest of his life. Dumbly, he clasped his hands over the obscene slit in his body, trying to stop the blood that was soaking into his undershirt like a sponge.

His attacker dropped the knife, the blade clattering to the floor with a spray of red droplets, and he bolted into the living room. There was a series of bangs and rattling as a number of drawers were opened in quick succession, and the man returned less than a minute later, his pockets stuffed with money, a watch and several vicodin bottles. The house phone was in his hand, and he watched quietly as Wilson tried to crawl away.

Wilson was panting hard, using all his effort to drag himself away with one elbow, leaving a slug's trail of blood behind. Something unreadable passed through the stranger's eyes, and he leaned down to gently set the phone in front of Wilson's face. As Wilson gripped it tentatively, the nameless man turned on his heel and crawled out the broken kitchen window without a word.

Shock was strumming Wilson like a harp, and so it took a moment to remember what to do with the phone. When a rational portion of his brain finally gave him a kick, he punched in a familiar set of numbers with one shaky thumb. The phone rang once as he held it to his bloodless lips, and then the voice of a young, bored female filled his ear.

"911. Do you need the fire department, police or EMS?"

Wilson licked his dry lips and croaked, "H-help me."

"Sir, tell me what's happened to you," she said, still with that detached air. "Do you need medical assistance?"

"Yes, I... yes. I've been stabbed."

"Sir, are you in danger? Is the person that hurt you nearby?"

He swallowed, frightened by how long it took him to remember something that had happened only moments ago. "No, he ran away. I don't even know..."

The man might have just killed him, and he didn't even know what his voice sounded like.

Suddenly, all he wanted to do was hang up. The woman was only doing her job, and detachment was vital for a position like hers, but he didn't want the last voice he heard to be someone who couldn't muster the energy to care.

"Just hurry," he finished. "221 Baker Street, apartment... apartment B. Please."

He hung up before she could protest and took a moment to wad up the front of his shirt, pressing down hard to act as a sop for the blood. A foul odor washed up from the wound as he applied pressure, and he felt something inside him grow cold. Ah, God…

House. He needed House.

The phone was back against his ear, the line open and ringing almost before he knew what he was going to do. House answered his cell on the third ring, greeting Wilson with a belch.

"You're missing out, man. Adams brought homemade cookies. Feminists everywhere are crying." The relief of hearing him was almost enough to make him lose his grip on consciousness, and Wilson had to breathe through his nose for several long moments. After a few renditions of this, House spoke again, mild annoyance lacing through his tone, "As arousing as it is to listen to heavy breathing, I'm too full for phone sex. Speak now or forever hold your peace."

"Greg, I…"

That got House's attention. With poignant clarity, Wilson could imagine him straightening up, swinging his legs carefully off his desk. "The last time you called me that, your mom had just died. What happened?"

"I don't hate you, House," he blurted, curling himself around the phone and that beloved voice. "I just- I didn't... want you to-"

"Wilson. Stop babbling and talk to me."

"There was… a man. He broke in, was robbing us. I tried to stop him. So stupid."

"How badly are you hurt?" In a second, House's voice had dropped several octaves, his words grinding like gravel underfoot. In the background, a siren wailed. "Jimmy, speak up. _How bad?_"

"…Bad."

"Shit!" There was a bang, and then the groan of a glass door swinging open. Wilson nearly dropped the phone as an unseen book hit the diagnostic table with a sound like a gun shot, and as he fumbled with it, House said, "Check under C. Think 'lesions.' If you haven't figured it out in an hour, you're all fired."

"House, it's Christmas," Wilson protested weakly.

"And they're being stupid, whether or not some fat pedo's hurrying down the chimney tonight." House's breathing had picked up as he spoke, accompanied by the steady _tick tick_ of a cane moving at speed. "I heard sirens a bit ago. Tell me those are for you."

"Hope so. I called."

House sighed and said, "I would drive home right now, but by the time I got there, the ambulance would have already taken you away. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," he said steadily, even as something inside him moaned in protest. "It's fine. Just talk to me."

"I'd rather it go the other way. Tell me how you're hurt. What am I going to see when I storm the ER?"

Nausea threatened to overwhelm him, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel something black and terrifying welling up within him, and it took all his strength to stay present, _here_.

"Stab wound to the right rectus abdominis muscle," he finally managed, text book graphics swimming behind his eyelids. "Black blood, bad smell. Probably perforated intestine. It's- it's hard to concentrate. Shock, I think. It hurts so bad."

"I know. Just keep awake. That's all you have to do right now."

Wilson opened his mouth to speak again, only for his face to twist as pain shot up his spine like an arrow. Fighting not to writhe, he pulled the phone away just in time to vomit bile and chamomile tea onto the kitchen floor. As he gagged and spit, his eyes watering, he tried to push himself away from the mess with legs that felt as weak as cooked spaghetti. God, he didn't want to die like this.

Hearing his name, sounding tinny and so far away, he pressed the phone back to his ear and gasped, "I love you."

He had never said those words aloud before, not to this man, and he willed himself not to cry as House sucked in a pained breath.

"If this is your warped way of saying goodbye to me, I swear I'll find a way to resurrect your ass so I can kill you myself," he gritted, as angry as Wilson had ever heard him.

There was a pause and a merry chime as House stepped into the elevator. The Christmas music being piped into the car acted as an absurd counterpoint to their conversation, and a few seconds of hearing it seemed to drain the venom from him.

"I need you conscious, idiot," he said softly. "Keep talking."

For a moment, dark humor penetrated the haze, and Wilson had a sudden sick urge to laugh. "I'm going to get sepsis, House. Should've... should've been born a woman. They're better at fighting off infection."

"I'm sure your tits would've been magnificent, but I'd miss your dangly bits."

The quip came readily to House's lips, and Wilson smiled blindly, no longer able to open his eyes. Words without games were beyond House now, burned away by years of pain and disastrous relationships, and only someone who had known him for years could hear the fear and the affection behind it all. And for better or worse, no one was better at that game than Wilson.

"God, I love you."

"Stop that!" The elevator finally pinged open, and Wilson could hear the sounds of people milling about and the gabble of many voices. "Morons out of the way! Cripple coming through."

"So much," he whispered. "You have no idea..."

He was tired, and he hurt, and suddenly it was all too much to bear. The phone seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, and so he let it drop, rolling onto his back. He was drifting in and out of the blackness, no longer so frightening now, and he barely registered the shouting and the sirens, the pounding on the door, or the splintering of wood.

The sounds of movement and voices seemed to explode around him, and someone pried his right eye open, shining a light into his pupil. It hurt, and he wrenched his head away with a groan of protest. This prompted another flurry of movement and several pointed questions he didn't bother trying to understand, for his ear had come to rest against the phone.

That voice again, that treasured voice.

"Jimmy? Come on, talk to me. I need to hear your voice." House was gasping now, as if all the air was being sucked from the room, and Wilson wondered dazedly why he was so upset. "Damn you, Wilson, _I will not allow you to die._"

Wilson wanted to answer, but an EMT chose that moment to kick the phone away as she leaned down to fit an oxygen mask over his face. He briefly mourned the loss, but with oxygen flooding his nose and mouth and strangers tugging at his clothes, he decided it was all right. Unconsciousness beckoned, and he took it by the hand, letting it pull him under and away.

He had nothing to worry about, after all. House wouldn't allow him to die.


End file.
